


poem

by allfandomnolife



Category: Actor RPF, Henry Cavill - Fandom
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24424360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfandomnolife/pseuds/allfandomnolife
Summary: a love story told through poems??
Relationships: Henry Cavill/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	poem

*

The news comes to you early in the morning. It is almost a fitting day for it to happen. A call from your agents tells you that you are now a Times Bestselling author. Fuck. There aren’t many words to say. You’ve done it. It took years and numerous edits and meetings with your editor before it was even publishable. You were, and still are, surprised that the book was published let alone brought and read. 

After all of the work and time you put into that book, it’s a relief that people want to read it. It is your child. It was your diary, your escape, and a place to pour your heart into. It was your safe place once you and Henry broke up. A creative escape that snowballed into something more. 

Looking at your copy, you scoff. It wasn’t meant to be sad. You had many different poems. Happy ones. Ones about love. But then they took a turn with your relationship. It’s one of the risks of writing about your own life. It’s how you try to reason with yourself, at least. You go to the first page and try to read it outloud steadily. Your voice is shaky with both anxiety and heartbreak. The sound emanating from your mouth does not seem to be yours anymore. 

*  
1: Day to Night

The sun peeks through the curtains and  
You are beside me. Soft snores from Your  
lips put a smile on my face. You are  
the reason I wake in the morning.

Like the birds chirping in the morning,  
You remind me of being awake. Of being  
alive and loved. You are the reason for  
my good mornings. 

I love You the way that I need the oxygen  
coursing through my body. Every  
molecule giving more than it takes.  
And yet I can't quite quit these mornings.

Moonlight enters the house making  
Everything it kisses glow. And under Your  
touch, You tell me that You love me,  
Underneath the light of nightfall.

The peace washes over us and  
and You tell me that You love when  
I fall asleep in Your arms and lull You into the darkness  
Before whispering good night.

You love me like the sky loves  
The stars. You tell me that I am Your  
guide through life and you need me  
like the day needs the night.

*

The poem makes you feel more than a little sick. There’s a sour taste in your mouth from reading it. Each word caustic. You idolised Henry. Put him on a pedestal but it doesn’t matter anymore because he isn’t here beside you anymore. He’s gone. And you need to remember that. Unable to look at your own work any longer, you place it on the table and take a shaky breath. 

When it was first published, you felt vulnerable. Your relationship was put on paper and people would be able to read it. They would be able to read how you fell in love and how you fell out of it. There are a few things so terrifying in life; having people understand your sorrows. Having people tear your pain apart over a simile. 

The fear is natural or so you’ve been told. Your book was a project you worked on over a period of years. You built it from scratch and then you put it into the world to be judged. But now it’s different. Whilst you know that people have read it by themselves, you’re doing a reading. You are going to be speaking the words and pain that you felt to a group of people. They are going to look at you. They will see and hear your pain in person. And you will feel it all. Their sadness. Their pity. You’re petrified. The vulnerability is back tenfold tonight.

To make matters worse, your agent, Jasmine has arranged for the evening to be recorded. The nerves bubble in your stomach and even a few deep breaths do nothing to soothe the fear radiating off of your body. Maybe alcohol will work to take some of the edge off. Grateful that you’re not doing your own makeup, you down a shot of tequila and hope that the burn will distract you. 

The alcohol does little to stop your hands from shaking or your brain from thinking about Henry. It is always on nights when you read your own work that you really remember him. Remembering the way that you thought that he loved you. But it doesn't just bring back the good. It brings back the fights and hurt, too. 

*

The room is quaint. The chairs are all filled up and people have their copies of your book in their hands. Your own is clutched in your right hand as your left hand makes a fist over it trying to stop yourself from shaking. ‘Good evening everybody and thank you for coming out tonight,’ you smile into the crowd and try to calm yourself, ‘it seems fitting that tonight is my first reading and I become a Times Bestselling author this morning.’ 

Your audience claps and you can’t help but feel a swell of pride. ‘I just want to thank you all for buying and reading “Confessions” I am so grateful for all of the support.’ Clearing your throat, you awkwardly raise your book into the air and adjust the microphone.

‘This is called “Break” which is on page 23,’ you press open the book just a little more with your thumb before reading out loud. It’s almost cathartic hearing the words roll from your tongue and into the room where the words are no longer just yours.

*

20: Break  
Remembering our first kiss is caused by a mix of alcohol,  
and nostalgia. Many say that it’s a happy memory but  
I just want to throw the bottle of cheap wine  
at a wall and watch it shatter.

I want to see shards of glass littered sparkle under the moonlight,  
across the floor beneath my feet, and see the wine trickle  
like a little river.  
A red river of my anger. 

*

At the very end your voice cracks and you try to hide the surge of emotion but the camera captures it all. Each twinkle in your eye and every tiny frown marring your face is in high definition for someone at home to scrutinise. It will be seen and analyzed in the comments beneath the video and you’re aware that you won’t be able to resist reading them.

‘“Break” is a poem about remembering a relationship. One where the good memories have been tainted by bad ones and so even the purest things like a first kiss is bitter,’ you take a sip of water in an attempt to create a little distance between yourself and the audience. ‘I wrote this during one of the last arguments in my previous relationship.’ Tears well in your eyes but you blink them away quickly, pinching your hand to try to regain some control of your emotions.

As the night goes on, you find yourself reconnecting with your writing. The words become art and not a reflection of your emotions. It becomes something bigger than that. A shared experience with those in front of you. The people listening to you. Watching you intently. It is a show. A transformative performance of your pain. Maybe this is the closure you needed.

*

You’re relieved when the show is over. Voice hoarse from speaking and eyes sore from unshed tears, you’re grateful to be able to go home. Bundled in your heavy coat and scarf, you make your way to the car. Somebody is waiting at your car and you rush back inside fearing for your safety.  
The person at your car calls out your name and you recognise the voice. The blood in your body runs cold as you try to avoid Henry. ‘Please don’t go. I’m not going to leave until we speak.’ 

A lump grows in your throat and you try your hardest not to cry or scream. Henry sounds just as hurt as you feel and then you see it. He has a book in his hand. A copy of your own. Even under the dim glow of the streetlights you know it is your own. You’ve looked at it more times than any critic or fan. 

‘Why are you here?’ the wavering of your voice is undeniable. You’re more terrified of seeing Henry again than you were for the entire performance. A moment of weakness makes you want to run into his arms and relive his touch. 

‘To speak to you,’ Henry takes a step closer to you and you’re rendered to only shaking your head, ‘to congratulate you for becoming a bestseller.’ Henry raises his eyebrow and cocks his head in the same way he would when you were together. It was the same gesture he made when he’d tell you he was proud of you.

Looking up from the ground, you try to speak, ‘thank you.’ It is nothing but a mere whisper but there was little more you could say. All you want to do is let the universe decide if you should stay and speak to Henry or run away because you don’t have the strength to decide.

‘Please can we talk?’ Henry pleads with you once more and the sadness in his voice makes you cave. Unlocking the door to your car, you jump into the driver’s seat as Henry sits in the passenger’s. ‘Thank you.’ He gets more quiet. More intimate.

‘What did you want to talk about?’ You’re not able to look at Henry but you can feel his gaze on you. The air is thick with tension and anticipation.

‘This,’ Henry opens your book to page 88. Your final poem. He looks at you with pleading eyes and you can’t force yourself to look away. ‘Tell me that you don’t mean it.’

You neither want to lie to Henry or admit that you still love him so you sit in silence and just stare at him. Henry’s eyes plead with you through the darkness but when you stay silent, he starts to read it out loud.

*

70: Tell Me

tell me that You love me, i plead  
on my knees like a beggar.  
my hands pressed together, like a prayer  
where i speak to You.

tell me that You hate me, i cry  
from the bottom of my lungs.  
walking with my head hung low, wishing  
for You to feel something for me.

tell me that You miss me, i scream  
at the top of my muted voice.  
trapped in some fucked up dream, where i  
am haunted by memories of You.

tell me that You’ve forgotten me, i pray  
to whoever can hear me.  
i’ve learnt that i’ve never needed You to stay, but  
Your presence haunts me.

tell me that i know me, i say  
to nobody in particular.  
body washed cleaner each day, reborn  
until there is a new Me.

*

You stare out of the window as Henry reads. Each word he says becomes more real. You wrote that. You did this. It is your fault that you’re in this situation now. It was a poem you fought to get into your anthology. You fought tooth and nail but this is the cost.

‘Tell me it isn’t true,’ Henry’s pleas are mixed with your sobs and the car gets heavy. You’re suffocating in this. The pain is blinding. It is not helping that Henry, too, is crying. It’s overwhelming. You’re dizzy and everything feels a little light. Almost as if you aren’t really here anymore. Just floating and watching as the pain radiates in your chest. ‘Please just fucking speak.’

Without even looking over at him, you know that Henry is pulling at his hair. It is something that he does when he is in a stressful situation. You’ve seen it many times before when you fight. ‘Just answer me and I will leave if you want me to.’

‘No,’ you’re only able to say that one word and you turn your head towards Henry. His hand is on the handle of your car and you shake your head. He relaxes and looks almost a little less worried. His brows unfurrow just a little and he puts on his seatbelt. 

You do the same and start the car. You drive home in silence. Both you and Henry are too absorbed in your own thoughts that the music from the radio is drowned and the only thing you’re able to focus on is the road ahead of you.

*

‘Can I show you just how much I’ve missed you?’ Before you’re even able to nod fully, Henry’s hand cups your face and he kisses you. His lips are so tender and soft against your own that it almost wipes away the memory of your first kiss.

Henry pulls you to your bedroom and kisses you once more. His large body envelopes you as he picks you up and lays you down onto your bed. Once you’re laying down, Henry takes a moment to stop and just look at you. He admires your beauty trying to rengrave every detail of you into his mind in case he can never be this close to you again. 

He kisses you once more before gently taking your shirt off of your body and admiring your form once more. Placing a single kiss on your chest, he removes his own shirt as you rid yourself of the rest of your clothing. 

Desperately, you pull Henry down to kiss you as you fumble with his belt and push his trousers down. Caging your body, Henry pushes you back down onto the bed and rubs his boxer-clad erection against your wet slit.

You reach down to pull his cock out to let Henry know just how badly you need him. He toys with your hard nipples and you arch into him. You’ve missed his touch. ‘I need you now. Fuck foreplay. Please.’ You beg and keen and Henry needs you just as badly as you need him.

Henry steps away from you and pushes his boxers off before lining himself up with your entrance and slowly inching into you. You grip at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin and you arch. He’s so big that he’s stretching your walls to accommodate his girth. Henry doesn’t move once he’s bottomed out, knowing that you need to adjust to his size.

‘I’ve got to move, baby,’ the last word slips out involuntarily but your heart flutters as he says it. You nod and Henry starts to move in long, slow motions. He rests his forehead against yours as he continues to thrust into you. The base of his cock brushes against your clit making you scream and hold onto him tighter. ‘Fuck.’ Henry groans and you arch your back.

Henry continues to thrust into you, each stroke rediscovering the places you haven’t been able to access since he left. Before long your legs start to tremble and through your closed eyes, little colours dot around. ‘Fuck.’ You cross your ankles around Henry’s back trying to pull him closer.

‘Come, baby,’ Henry picks up the pace trying to get you to your climax before his. You cum as Henry’s thrusts get less rhythmic as your walls clench around him and he comes. ‘Fuck.’ You kiss Henry once more trying to savour the feeling and taste of him.

‘I missed you,’ Henry sounds heartbroken. It is almost as if he fears that it would be the last time. That it might be goodbye sex. ‘Please give me another chance. Fuck, it broke my heart reading that poem. Please tell me it’s not true.’

You close your eyes and swallow, ‘it’s not,’ you can’t look Henry in the eyes but he turns your face towards him, ‘I needed a poem to end it and so I wrote it.’ You offer no further explanation.

‘Please give me another chance,’ you’re still, ‘please let me erase that poem. Let me redeem myself.’ You nod your head slowly.


End file.
